A Light in the Darkness
by darkhelmetj
Summary: Rumours of a powerful demonic artefact draw the New Tristram crew to Caldeum, where they attempt to secure it without attracting unwanted attention. Spectacular hijinks ensue. Post-RoS. Act 3 in a series. Complete!
1. The Necromancer's Apprentice

_**DIABLO: AMOR AETERNUS**_

 _ **ACT III**_

* * *

 _ **A Light in the Darkness**_

* * *

"Hope is the voice that will never be silent.  
Hope is the spring that fills the wells of courage.  
Hope is the light in the darkness."

\- Auriel, Archangel of Hope

* * *

 ** _Chapter One: The Necromancer's Apprentice_**

 **The Year 1327, Early Summer**

"This best not be a goose chase," Lyndon said, tugging his head-covering further across his face to try and block the worst of the zenith sun. "Osseus should have dragged his own arse to Caldeum instead of sending minions. It's a damn warm time of year to travel."

Aya mimicked the action, re-arranging her cape to better protect her skin. "You seemed pleased enough at the start of our journey."

"This heat would make Diablo himself cross."

"And here I thought demonic blood granted you resistance to such things." She cackled when he made a rude gesture. "We'll arrive soon enough. And then we'll see if there's any truth to these rumours."

"One would think the world would run out of evil artefacts to uncover."

"Unlikely," Malthael said, interrupting their conversation. "Demons sow chaos eternally." He had been mostly silent the latter half of the trip, having chosen to ride behind them and cover their flanks. Given the increasing violence towards Nephalem in Sanctuary since the previous summer, Lyndon was more than content to trade the extra company for safety.

"That is unfortunately true," Aya said. "Do you have any suspicions about its nature? Tyrael told me very little about it except that help was needed urgently."

"No. The apprentice's message was…vague." The scholar reached behind him to a side-basket strapped to his horse, and eventually procured a pastry from its depths. "To preserve secrecy, I hope, instead of a lack of research."

Lyndon's jaw slackened at the sight of proper food. "What is this? When did you acquire such delicacies?"

"Farah," Malthael said, as if that was an excuse for him hoarding the baking to himself.

"No wonder you wanted to ride alone. What a treasure trove. I'm surprised they lasted you this long."

"A trade. She asked that I search for some books." He absently rambled off a verbose list that made Lyndon's head spin.

"And where do you plan on storing those for the return ride? Or have you stowed an extra horse in that basket alongside all her gifts?"

Malthael side-eyed him from under his hood. "She has small needs. Unlike yourself, apparently. Surely you did not forget to eat along the way?"

"If you had asked nicely, I am sure she would have sent you some as well," Aya added, laughing.

Lyndon scoffed. "Truly? I think your sister dislikes me."

"Because you bring mud into the library."

"A by-product of a life on the road."

"Also, cockroaches."

"A complete accident. Roaches go where they please."

"You threw Tyrael through the library door."

"I tripped!" Which was a lie, of course, and Aya knew it because she had been right behind him when it had happened.

"And that is why you are stuck eating dried bread rolls, while he has apple pastries." The arcanist flinched as something landed on her lap, then laughed when she realized Malthael had tossed her one. "Good aim. My thanks."

"Miscreants," Lyndon said, only half-heartedly. If they ever arrived in Caldeum, there would be plenty of street-food for him to indulge in. He glanced further up the road to where Tyrael rode point. In the noon sun, the former-angel cast an imposing silhouette from cloak and plate armor. "How far?" he called. "It has been awhile since I last travelled this way.

"Over the next rise," Tyrael returned. "And remember, we are aiming to be discreet."

Malthael muttered something through a mouthful of baking.

Lyndon turned and pointed at him. "I didn't quite catch that, but I'm assuming you directed it at me."

"He said try not to set anything on fire." Aya grinned. "Any of us."

Lyndon shook his head, amused it had to be said at all; but with their group it was a very real possibility. "The only thing I intend to set on fire are the hearts of the beautiful women of Caldeum."

Malthael muttered again.

"I would _also_ tell Eirena," Aya said, indignantly. "Lyndon, you are a scoundrel."

"I am a _joker_!" He raised his hands innocently. When Malthael tipped his head, he quickly added, "And no additional insights from you, my soft-spoken friend. Eirena and I have had many years to work out the intricacies of our relationship."

The other man shrugged, fetched another pastry from his basket, and bit into it slowly, as if daring Lyndon to say anything.

Touché. "Well played."

"Enough chattering," Tyrael said, having drawn back towards the group. "We are approaching the gates. Our contact will meet us once we are inside. Until then, we are simply travellers, marvelling at the wonders of the city. Try not to draw unwanted attention."

"I won't raise the dead if you don't," Lyndon muttered towards Malthael. "Savvy?"

The former-Reaper had excellent hearing. Instead of replying, he nailed Lyndon in the side of the head with a particularly gooey strudel. Snickering, Lyndon fetched it from his head-covering before it could slide off and took a substantial bite. "That's better. Those who share are happier in life, you know."

"Enough." Tyrael massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hells, I should have made Osseus come with."

"I didn't think you were that enamoured with the smell of frankincense." Aya pursed her lips in an apparent attempt to stem laughter. "Tyrael, you are continually full of surprises."

"Best hope I am the only one." The man sighed loudly. "But come, we are here."

* * *

Caldeum had changed little since Malthael had last visited. The city was full of the sound of hawking vendors and the scent of grilled spices. Around them, mighty neighborhoods rose towards the clouds, the tops of which were reserved for the richest inhabitants. Those less fortunate skulked about in the lower levels or worked with the merchants to try and earn a meager living. Social inequality was rife in the Jewel of the East, and witnessing it always left an unpalatable taste in his mouth.

"I missed these towers," Aya said, spinning her horse on the square so she could take it all in. Her eyes trailed along the glimmering spires and golden domes as her lips curved into a content smile. "Of the many things I was content to leave, the city itself I could have kept. What a marvel."

"I do appreciate the crowds," Lyndon said, pointing towards the curve of the main street, where it turned into one of the city's many bustling bazaars. "Far easier to move undetected, here, than in smaller settlements."

"Agreed." Malthael lowered his cowl as soon as they found some shade. He preferred the anonymity of the garment as well as the protection from the sun, but the air was sweltering, and he was finding it difficult to breathe under the cloak. It was an additional reason why he preferred visiting Kingsport to Caldeum.

"You skulk everywhere regardless of the population," the scoundrel said. "You know, I was immensely grateful when you began to come out during the day. Every night as I made my way home I wondered if I would run into you, the shadow, who scared the life from me as he appeared suddenly at my back."

"Blindness is a known side effect of age."

"I am mortally wounded. My eyes are not nearly so bad. See? There is Tyrael now with our new friend."

Tyrael approached off-mount, leading his charger on foot while the other individual walked to his side. Malthael recognized the markings on his cloak as those of the Church of Rathma. He was surprised to see him wearing such identification out in the open when they were aiming for anonymity. However, Caldeum was extremely large, and he supposed there might be enough necromancers wandering about to avoid suspicions.

That, or Osseus' apprentice had not considered his dress at all for the situation, which was the far more concerning conclusion.

"Friends, this is Chith." Tyrael gestured at the young man, who bowed and smiled.

He was far younger than Malthael expected, given he had been Osseus' apprentice for several years already. He possessed the stark white hair of a necromancer, though his face maintained a lingering roundness only present in one who had not practiced the death arts for decades. His eyes glimmered with an internal amusement that seemed at odds with his profession, and that left Malthael with a lingering curiosity.

Malthael had mostly heard about Chith from his mentor, who constantly regaled Tristram's residents with stories of his apprentice's corpse-raising exploits. And he obviously possessed a depth of talent to have been taken under a senior necromancer's wing at such a young age, as well as to be allowed to continue his studies on his own, away from his mentor's guiding hand.

None of which fit with Chith's lack of necromantic-dourness, or the mildly irritating delight that seemed to radiate from his face. Something was clearly amiss.

"I hope your ride was pleasant," the young man said. "And the road quiet."

"It was pleasant enough for the season," Aya said, fanning her face. "I forgot how hot it becomes during the day. I have been south too long." She dropped from her horse; her boots clicked loudly on the paving stones, and she raised a hand in greeting. "Well met, friend."

"You must be Aya!" His expression became one of overwrought excitement. "Tyrael just told me about you. I did not realize there were Caldeum natives in Tristram!"

"A few," she said, smiling. "You have not been to Tristram, then?"

"No, I only heard stories from Master Osseus while we travelled on the road. I first met him here. The city is my home. Although, in his most recent letters, he said much has changed there. More Nephalem and the sort. You are more than welcome to my circle, my lady."

Malthael felt Lyndon's gaze fall on him. He and the other man did not always agree on things, but they were both capable of professionalism when it was required. And now was not the time for flirtation.

"I don't believe we have met," Lyndon interjected, stepping between the two, a grin suddenly plastered onto his face. "Let us finish introductions and we can be on our way. Lyndon, at your service!"

Chith's smile did not waver. "Greetings, friend. Tyrael also mentioned you. He said you were particularly apt at acquiring items without drawing attention."

"Yes, he is our sticky fingers," Aya said, mouthing her thanks to Lyndon.

"Then I am thankful to have you." Chith turned to Malthael and paused. "Tyrael neglected to mention a fourth in your party."

Malthael knew better than to be insulted. The omission was intentional; his brother was attempting to discover if Chith had been told about the formal-angel's existence. While it was an open secret in the town, they had taken measures, arcane or otherwise, to keep it within Tristram's borders. There were too many people who would be interested in retribution to have his presence become common knowledge. And Malthael was not interested in learning of Imperius' reaction to his survival should word reach the High Heavens. He had come to value his life, mortal as it was, and did not wish it to end needlessly.

"This is Mal," Tyrael said. "He is our lore-seeker and will be able to inform us on the nature of the artefact once we locate it."

Malthael resisted the urge to twitch at the nickname. Instead, he met the younger man's gaze, unblinkingly. The necromancer held it for an admirably long time before looking away and swallowing uncomfortably. Clearly, Osseus had not fully trained him in some of the Church's practices, including that of keeping his thoughts neutral and his emotions tapered.

 _He is easy to overwhelm. But with any luck, he will also divulge to us whatever he knows._

Tyrael cleared his throat. "Well then, shall we?"

* * *

Chith directed them to a local tavern and inn, a moderately sized establishment in one of the less reputable areas of the city where they would hopefully avoid the attention of the Emperor's forces. The bar was brimming when they entered, and Tyrael quickly located the innkeeper, securing them three rooms for a modest price. It was more than he wished to spend, but they also did not have the time to survey multiple locations for a better deal. Chith vanished upstairs as soon as he knew where to go, and Tyrael returned to the group to explain their arrangements.

"You needn't," Aya said, when he met them at their table. "I do not mind sharing a room."

"I insist," Tyrael said. "You are more than warranted your own space."

"She snores anyway," Lyndon said. "I have seen you sleep, Tyrael, and I vastly prefer it."

"I will be rooming with Chith."

The rogue's eyes widened, and he looked to Malthael, who was preoccupied with making notes in his journal.

"I am quiet."

"No," Lyndon said. "That is a lie. You would keep me up all night with your incessant comings and goings."

"As the dead." A subtle note of sarcasm entered Malthael's voice.

Tyrael glared at his brother. "Chith and I have much to discuss," he continued, attempting to pull the conversation back on track. He settled onto a chair and gestured to one of the barmaids to bring them a round. "It will be fruitful if we can do so privately until we work out the details. I would rather you all rest from the journey."

"If you are concerned about privacy," Aya said to Lyndon, "I am sure he can give you some time alone with the city's women."

"Crisped maidens," Malthael added, without looking up from his writing. "Be sure to sweep the ashes, lest Eirena find them."

"I can grant you the same if you wish some time alone with those pastries," the rogue said, without missing a beat. "Seeing as you mostly prefer to keep them to yourself. Do not leave too many crumbs in your bed."

He growled and snapped his journal shut.

"Or, whatever you wish," Lyndon added.

Tyrael watched the exchange with confusion; he knew how much they enjoyed bantering, and it was usually out of poorly-concealed friendship than spite. He rarely saw Lyndon garner a genuine reaction from his brother. The scoundrel also seemed confused, though he recovered swiftly when the barmaid returned with four large steins of the local lager.

"A toast," Lyndon said, grabbing one and hoisting it. "To our new companion Chith, and to our future adventures."

"Agreed," Aya said, also glancing Malthael's way, her expression clearly saying she had noticed the uncharacteristic outburst. "And to a good sleep tonight. I think we need it."

* * *

They turned in not too long after they finished their drinks. Lyndon knew better than to imbue heavily the night before a job; it was better reserved for afterwards, to celebrate success and help him relax. Malthael hadn't touched his at all, though that was not unusual. The only time Lyndon had seen the man drink was at the wedding they had attended shortly after they had met, and they had generally agreed to never mention it again.

Lyndon laid out his pack on the bed by the door, readied his gear for the morning, and stripped down to his breeches. He looked to the other man to ask if he could extinguish the oil lamp, but Malthael was leaning against the bed's headrest fully clothed and seemingly lost in thought.

Oh well. Lyndon blew out the light and crawled in. _He prefers the dark. And he would say something, otherwise._

He was on the precipice of sleep when Malthael's voice cut the air. "I am sorry."

Lyndon groaned and rolled over. The small amount of moonlight filtering through the window showed the other man hadn't moved far. "What are you sorry about?" He yawned. "Waking me? Because yes, you should apologize."

Malthael didn't reply.

"Are we having a serious discussion, friend? Some context would be appreciated."

"My behaviour was unwarranted."

"You engage in a lot of unwarranted behaviour," Lyndon said, unable to fully subdue his innate sarcasm. "To which are you referring?"

"You and I converse often, jokingly. I should not have reacted as I did to your comment."

"Wait. Are you meaning my bit about the pastries?"

Light help him. He did not think Malthael was sensitive about those sorts of jokes. In fact, in the time he had known him, he had never seen the other man show any sort of interest in physical relationships whatsoever. He had assumed it was a safe topic to jest about. Particularly when the implied lover was baked goods.

"Farah has received notable grief due to my presence in the library," Malthael said quietly. "And because she considers me a friend. I wish others respected her more."

"Ah, I understand. Baking is no joking matter."

"No, you do not. It should be. I overreacted and assumed ill-intent when there was none. But this represents one of the…kind things she has done that has earned her others' scorn."

Lyndon was not so crass as to trivialize such admissions, particularly from Malthael, who generally spoke with dry facetiousness if at all. They had spent many moments chatting about various elements of the world, but the conversations had never turned to the other man's feelings. Lyndon had never imagined he would be privy to such a frank discussion.

Or the sort of realization that was dawning on him now. "You care about her. Don't you. More than as an acquaintance?"

The other man's silhouette shifted as if he were uncomfortable.

"Tell me. What do angels know of love?"

The silence hung heavy. Eventually, Malthael spoke. "Little. There is no Aspect of love within Anu. Each domain, I suppose, experiences a similar feeling regarding its brethren, and between Aspects. But it is more a drive to perpetuate that action and to protect Anu's nature. To bring about justice, or to seek wisdom."

"Is that why you search and travel so compulsively? And why Tyrael reforms the Horadrim, again and again?"

Malthael nodded.

"And lust. Lust is a demonic domain. We mortals have both bloods in us. We experience lust, certainly. We often enjoy it." Lyndon chuckled. "But where does love come from, then, if not from Anu?"

"I do not know."

"It simply is? A part of the mortal experience?"

"Perhaps." Malthael paused. "Mortality is overwhelming. It is hard to control and comes with scant instructions. The more I learn, the more I realize I know nothing."

"There is a mighty truth in that. And you are forgiven your outburst, my friend. As mild as it was. We all have our moments." Something occurred to him; a comment from an off-hand conversation he and Tyrael had had many years prior. "Your brother once said you were the noblest of your kind, before things went sour."

"Doubtful."

"And that you valued all life, regardless of its type. I think there is an implied love in that. Perhaps it comes from wisdom. From understanding the purpose and meaning of all things, regardless of their composition."

Malthael did not reply. But he did eventually withdraw from the wall; and a time later, Lyndon heard the shallow breathing of sleep. He hoped he had granted him some useful wisdom to calm his mind for the coming days. They would all need to be at their best. And regardless of what he often claimed, he did consider the man a friend, one who he would help without question if he ever needed it.

Which was a strange thought: that the being he had once helped kill had become one of his most reliable companions. Malthael was not the only one left to consider the implications of mortal interactions. Consumed, though not unhappily so, with the irony of his life, Lyndon turned his thoughts to rest, and was immediately drawn into vivid dreams of adventure and treasure.

* * *

"Did you sleep well?" Aya greeted them as they met for breakfast in the tavern.

Malthael nodded, somewhat truthfully. He felt a great deal better after speaking to Lyndon, though he loathed to admit entirely how much the other man had helped. Even so, he had slept restlessly afterwards, and he stifled the urge to yawn. Mortal weaknesses did not irritate him as much as they did Tyrael, but he was still unimpressed his body had chosen that night, of any, to sleep poorly.

"I owe your sister a kind word when we return," the rogue said, choosing a seat.

Aya looked surprised. "Malthael, what did you do to him?"

The rogue snorted. "He smartened me up. Truly, I joke too much about Farah. She has done wonders for the library and we are lucky to have her."

"You must have possessed him," she continued. "Did you re-work his soul while he slept?"

Before Malthael could reply, Tyrael and Chith appeared at the table.

"Soul work!" Chith asked, enthusiastically. "Do I hear mention of necromancy? Osseus did not mention sending another disciple! Though soul stitching is a dark art, indeed. I know few who would even dare dabble in it."

No, he thought. _You heard nothing of the sort. Damned be their loose lips._ "He did not. You must have misheard."

"You speak!" The necromancer looked genuinely shocked. "I thought perhaps you were mute."

"He does speak, as should you," Tyrael interjected. "Friends, Chith has not been entirely truthful with us."

The group turned to stare at the necromancer, whose expression rapidly turned to one of overt guilt. "I am not alone in Caldeum," he said, after Tyrael prodded him not so gently with a foot. "Before he returned to Tristram, Osseus secured me a new mentor in case I needed assistance."

Aya sighed. "Wonderful, more folks to involve. Who is your new instructor?"

"My Mistress's name is Zaira, and she is currently posing as an acolyte of those who possess the artefact."

At mention of the name, both Aya and Lyndon groaned loudly; the arcanist massaged the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger.

"Hellspawn," she hissed. "Of all the people he could have…damn Osseus."

The name was unfamiliar to Malthael; he cocked his head in query.

"I have experienced Zaira enough to last a lifetime," she said, in explanation.

"She and Osseus had a…thing. Many years ago. Before you arrived." Lyndon looked pained. "It ended poorly. In part because her methods are looked on rather unfavourably by the Church. She has a few…unhealthy fixations." The scoundrel stared at him for far longer than was required, and Malthael wondered what exactly he was trying to communicate. "Very unhealthy."

"Then why did he entrust his student to her, if they are no longer close?"

The other three glanced at Chith. Tyrael cleared his throat and tried to avoid Malthael's roving gaze, but it was too late. His expression spoke volumes; it said that the action had neither been honest nor kind.

Confusion growing, Malthael considered everything he knew about the situation thus far: that Osseus had lied about Chith still being his student; and that Chith gave off none of the personae or arcane energy Malthael associated with Rathma practitioners. Had he not been told the young man's profession, the last one he would have guessed was necromancy.

And then, the pieces fell into place and made a sudden and horrible sense.

Osseus had lied because was too proud to admit he had made a mistake. And to rid himself of said mistake without tarnishing his reputation, he had pawned his student off on his former lover. Likely out of some petty, mortal revenge. He made a mental note to rebuke Osseus next time he saw him, and immediately revised his impression of Chith.

 _Likely possesses no necromantic skills whatsoever. Unsure what Osseus initially saw in him, but not that. Worldly awareness marginally lacking. Potential idiocy: to be determined_.

"The mentorship was a gift to Zaira," Chith eventually replied, enthusiastically enough Malthael knew he was also incompetent at reading faces. "As a remaining token of his love previously expressed. She was most pleased with it. I mean, with me. She always says I am an invigorating challenge."

Aya snorted loudly.

Ignoring her, Malthael wrenched his brain away from trying to deduce Chith's inner workings. He had more important things to consider. "Unimportant. Your letter said you had the artefact. Where is it?"

"That's the, er, difficult part." The young man tapped his fingers against the table. "I may have delayed in telling her about it."

"May have? Yes, or no."

"…Yes."

" _And_?"

"By the time she was in a position to steal it, it was acquired by another group."

Tyrael glanced to Malthael, as if anticipating what was coming and begging him to not kill Chith outright. Which _was_ the appropriate reaction. He had not had near enough tea for how the morning was progressing. He required that sort information before they left Tristram, not after they arrived with a specific combatant composition and supplies.

Malthael narrowed his eyes. "Where. Is. It?"

"In the vault of the Iron Wolves."

"Well, shit," Lyndon said.

There were no words accurate enough to encompass the irritation Malthael felt at the revelation. He decided he would spend the rest of the morning thinking up colourful synonyms for 'imbecile' instead of imagining various ways of strangling Chith. Of all the places for the artefact to end up, the vault was the worst. It was the most heavily fortified location in the entire city outside of the Palace itself. He had never managed to sneak inside and did not like his chances of doing so now, even with assistance.

"I was hoping you could help," Chith said, wringing his hands. He still wore the insufferable smile, though several beads of sweat had formed and were dripping down his forehead. "Which is why I requested assistance. You can, can't you? Help?"

Tyrael glanced at Malthael. "Do you have a plan?"

"No," he said, exasperated. "But I am sure I can think of one. First, however." He levelled a glare at Chith. "You had best tell us everything you know."

The necromancer's face grew paler than it already was.

" _Everything_."

* * *

 **A/N: Welcome to Act III!** I appreciate all of your patience. Life has been a bit nuts and this story struggled hard against my editing. But it's mine, now. Mwahahaha.

 _A Light in the Darkness_ is four chapters and approximately 16,000 words in total. By the gods, I think we've found more of the plot. Or at least a start. We've also found our buddy Chith! Everyone wave to him and say hi! Hopefully it'll make him feel better after he's subjected to Malthael's withering glare.

If you HAVEN'T caught up on reading "Tales From Tristram", I highly recommend doing so, as the stories help fill in some of the character development that occurs between Act II and III, particularly with Malthael.

 **Fun writing facts:  
** \- This story takes place about 9 months after "Arcane and Apple" _ends_.  
\- The library door incident Lyndon references was written into THIS story before I went back and wrote "Night of Souls". It was meant to be a one-off joke reference before it ended up appearing in the actual series.  
\- Lyndon will just not let go of the drunk-wedding he's not supposed to talk about.  
\- Chapter 2 and 3 will have artwork (always accessible on my Tumblr blog).


	2. The Kin of Angels

**_Chapter Two: The Kin of Angels_**

It was well into the afternoon before the group felt comfortable commencing their chosen course of action. Tyrael and Malthael had gone over the details repeatedly, the scholar reassessing it all each time until he declared it was the best they could do without acquiring additional assistance. The plan was not entirely to either of their liking, but Tyrael thought it was better than watching the artefact slip further away from them.

They gathered outside the tavern, having been assigned their tasks. Chith glanced nervously at Malthael as though he were still recovering from the pointed interrogation he had experienced earlier. Tyrael was beginning to suspect his trademark grin was as much from nerves as from genuine optimism. It was probably best if he kept him under his watch for a while, if to at least give him some separation from his brother's intense personality.

"Then we are agreed," Tyrael said, resting a hand on El'druin. "We will split ways and meet back here once we have what we need. Chith, Aya, and I will search for Zaira."

"And I will tail the Iron Wolves," Lyndon said. "And try to learn more about their patterns without being caught and slowly tortured to death."

When Malthael didn't say anything, Tyrael gestured to him. "Well?"

The other man silently held up a rolled piece of parchment.

"Happy shopping," Lyndon said, chuckling before Aya cuffed him about the arm.

Tyrael tried not to roll his eyes. "If any of us fail, we will still meet back here by sunset. And if any of us are missing, we will assume something has happened."

Lyndon and Malthael nodded, then disappeared seamlessly into the crowd as if they were never there. Chith's disconcerting grin turned into an open-mouthed stare.

"Incredible," he breathed. "Do they always move with such stealth?"

"All the time. It becomes annoying. Come, my new acquaintance." Aya swept a colourfully clothed arm around the necromancer's shoulders and dragged him forward. "Let us find your Mistress. Does she know you asked for our help?"

"Of course not," Tyrael said. "Or she would have found a way to provide us with far more details ahead of time. Say what you will about Zaira, but her work is always thorough."

"It is a very dangerous artefact," Chith spluttered, though he did not struggle against the arcanist's grip. "I could not risk sharing more. Had someone intercepted my message and learned the details, the situation could have become grave!"

"It is already grave."

"And full of necromancers," Aya added. "I cannot imagine it becoming graver."

Light help me, Tyrael thought. _I am stuck with an unskilled trainee and a trio of jokers. This cannot possibly go wrong._

Chith continued to stammer. "What I told Mal was true. When Zaira and I met before the Wolves attacked, she had successfully infiltrated the Baal worshipers who had uncovered the gem. Truthfully, most of the remaining details I have are my own guesses. Zaira knows the rest."

"That fits with what Mal suspects," Aya said. "A demon-crafted stone."

"I thought perhaps it was a Soulstone. It is blood-red in colour."

Tyrael shook his head. "Baal's Soulstone was destroyed ages ago, and the rest were accounted for. If a fragment remained, his spirit would not have been released back into the Hells. Soulstones are complete objects regardless if they are split. It is far likelier it was created by Baal while he walked Sanctuary. A Baalstone, if you will."

The three fell silent, proceeding the rest of the way without speaking. The further they travelled into the city, the dirtier the landscape became, until they were surrounded by slums. Chith raised his hand as they approached a particularly run-down structure, and they halted. "Here, they were in this building. She told me never to approach and risk her cover, but I believe they were all killed by the Wolves."

"Where did you meet her last?"

"In the bazaar, per her usual instructions. Shortly after things…went wrong. I know she survived. It was how I found out about the attack in the first place. But I have not heard from her since, and she did share much with me before vanishing again." He stepped to the door and hesitantly placed a hand on it before knocking. When he received no response, he knocked a second time. When there was still no reply, he called, loudly, "Zaira, are you alive?"

A moment passed, then the door creaked open inward. A hand grabbed Chith by the collar and dragged him inside.

Tyrael and Aya glanced at each other.

"Well, are you coming as well?" a voice growled. "Or would you prefer to stand there like idiots?"

"How I missed her." Aya sighed. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

The building's interior was heavily burned; rafters hung in charred pieces, and the upper rooms were exposed to the sky and the elements. The trio followed an imposing figure down the stairs to the cellar, where a solid oak door hung off its hinges. The room was filled with broken canning jars, melted candles, salt circles, and corpses. Several of the bodies were cut open, and from their lack of decay Aya assumed they had been preserved through necromancy.

"How is my lovely Osseus?" Zaira asked, after turning their direction. She ran bony fingers through cropped, ivory hair and over sallow cheekbones. The woman was taller than Aya remembered and towered over her and Chith.

"Odorous as always," the arcanist said, trying to keep her eyes off the corpses. "What in the Hells have you been doing down here?"

"Resupplying." The necromancer turned to show them several flasks on her hip. One was filled with blood, another small bone chips. Aya did not know what the remaining two contained and did not wish to find out. "In preparation for retrieval. Had _someone_ notified me of the artefact's existence sooner, I might have whisked it away before the Wolves kicked in the door."

"And you survived their attack how?"

"I have my ways," Zaira said smoothly. "Though, I am sad Osseus did not personally grace me with his aroma. I have words for him."

Likely about Chith, Aya thought.

"He was preoccupied," Tyrael said, stepping forward. "There are two others in our group. We are to meet them later to formalize the second stage of our plan. We are already actively working to reacquire the stone."

"Ah. More fools for the effort."

"I thought you would appreciate the assistance."

"Oh, I do. And I expected none until Chith unbusied himself from whatever he was busy with and came to find me again. _Additional_ help is a welcome surprise."

"You could have located me first!" Chith said. "You told me not to come here, and then the last I heard from you was when you were whispering from behind a cart of cabbages. I have been worried sick for _weeks_! You could have been injured." He glanced at the mutilated corpses, cringing. "You could have starved!"

She shrugged off his concern. "Do not worry, I haven't been dining on them. I enjoy the sun, you know. And patience is not only for the dead." She drew an emerald-hued cloak from a splintered table and threw it about her shoulders with an unnecessary flourish. "Follow me, dears. I will tell you what I know."

Unable to hold in a hiss, Aya trailed the woman up the stairs. "Can we seal her in the stone?" she muttered to Tyrael. "I would like that."

"We need her."

"Unfortunately." She gave the rotting door a kick on the way out. "Hopefully the others are faring better."

* * *

Caldeum's bazaars were the largest on the continent, and Malthael had staunchly avoided them for several years for that reason. The last time he had visited the city, he had lost himself for days amongst the stalls, wandering from one fascinating object to another, telling himself he only had room to bring a few home with him. It had turned into an exercise in frustration, because he had wanted it all. It had also led to his first and only experience with sunburns, as his cloak had not been enough to fully block the light. He had suffered from itching and peeling cheekbones for weeks.

This time, at least, he could focus on the various lists he had been plied with. It distracted him from thinking about Tyrael, Aya, and Chith, and how their venture was going. He wanted to have faith in his companions, but he believed Chith was more a liability than a compatriot. A miniscule part of him was still curious about what had drawn Osseus to the young man, but he had far more pressing matters to consider. Such considerations could wait for later.

The bazaar was bustling with all manner of individuals, and he easily slipped unnoticed between them. Various food sellers called out their wares as he passed. He considered stopping at one of the pastry stalls, but decided against it when he saw the quality of the goods. Perhaps Lyndon was right, and he was partially biased to whatever Farah bought him. Tristram did attract talent, arcane or otherwise, and there was likely a bit of Nephalem blood even in its bakers.

He consulted the parchments as he approached the martial quarter of the bazaar. Lyndon's material was easy to find. He wanted an extra loop of tripwire, as well as a new quiver for his quarrels. Malthael heavily suspected the latter wasn't needed for their quest, and that the rogue had requested it because he knew Malthael was footing the bill. He would have to bother him for repayment later.

After acquiring the items and packing them away, he journeyed over to the arcane section, trying not to sneeze at the various clouds wafting about. He eyed up a few suspicious booths before stopping at a potions seller who did not appear to be a demonic entity in disguise. Though healing draughts were pricey, he knew better than to venture into the Iron Wolves' compound without something for wounds. Tristram had no healer, at least since Cain had died; nor did it have any sort of self-declared concoctions expert who could provide him with similar.

That finished, he turned to the next item on his list. Aya needed a tuning stone, an artificially crafted gem that helped hone and amplify arcane power. They tended to burn out after short-term use, which made them pricy. But they also needed all the help they could get, and after briefly cringing at the cost, he handed over gold in exchange for one.

By the time he stumbled upon a bookseller's stall, Malthael's coin purse was notably lighter. He hoped he had enough left for Farah's texts, assuming he could find any of them. He perused through the old volumes for several minutes before the seller came to check on him. It was a courtesy he appreciated; most of the vendors jumped at the first sign of a customer. At least the older woman waited until she knew he was a serious buyer.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

He nodded, handing her the librarian's list.

She glanced over it, pausing several times, before returning it. "I have two. The rest you would be hard pressed to find outside the Great Library." She directed him to a table near the back, where particularly dusty volumes sat untouched. "You have an eye for the obscure, young man."

Malthael chuckled at her remark. In physical form, the woman was vastly his senior. It was not a phrase he often heard tossed his way. And never when he had been immortal.

"There is nothing wrong with the rare," she continued, assuming his laughter had been about the books. "One often finds wisdom buried there. Or sometimes, refuse. It varies."

"Spoken truly," he said, a rare smile creeping onto his face. His earlier frustrations faded; it was an uncommon pleasure to speak to another scholar. "There are worse things than burying oneself in knowledge."

"Never coming out from it is one. You look like you could use more sun."

"To burn? Preferably not."

She smirked, amused. "Very well, then, my pale pursuer of the truth. Here. These are what you seek." She pulled two books from a pile and held them out—only to stop and stare intently at his waist.

Confused, Malthael glanced down and realized his stance had spread his cloak wide, revealing the blades strapped in sheaths to his hips. He had chosen the waist-sheaths to try and hide the weapons. They were clumsier for walking but faster to draw and easier to disguise under the cloak – assuming he was not careless.

"These texts are yours for half price if you allow me to see those." She nodded at the shotels.

"How much full price?"

He exhaled loudly when she told him; his coin purse was far too light. But be damned if he was going home without Farah's books. He snapped open a sheath and withdrew the blade, holding it to her balanced across his palms. She set the books aside and took it, running her fingers slowly across the hilt, then carefully tracing the runes. When the weapons were not illuminated, the markings were nearly invisible. He was surprised she noticed them.

"This is not the language of Sanctuary," she murmured. "Angiris, this is. From the High Heavens."

His hands tingled at her words. "Is it, now?"

"Verily."

"How-"

"Patience. Or are you in such a rush you have no time for a story?"

As his initial shock vanished, Malthael decided he was in no immediate danger. He maintained a good sense of the souls within people, and he felt nothing malicious within hers. Instead, strangely, there was something palpably familiar.

"Long ago," she continued, her voice growing distant, "angels and demons bred together. The seraph came from all Aspects of the Heavens. Inarius, the first, was of Justice. Others were of Valor, Hope, and Fate. And a few were of Wisdom."

Enthralled, he cleared a spot on one of the wooden tables, and considered the old woman with the pale, wrinkled eyes.

"Most forgot their history. A side effect of the tampering given to the Worldstone. But my father's family preserved theirs in writing. It was a noble history. They kept the knowledge of the Heavens, and later, that of Sanctuary. We have our stories of the marble halls and the Crystal Arch. Of endless pools of light that glittered with the wisdom of eternity. And of a gaunt, wise figure who carried curved blades engraved with angelic runes."

"What do the runes say?"

"They say that true strength is found in the wisdom of all things."

Speechless, he shook his head, his lingering smile fading to open-mouthed incredulity.

"My Lord Malthael, we heard you had been lost to us. It is good to see you returned to your duties." She carefully handed him back the blade, bowing deeply as he took it. "Thank you for such a gift. The books are yours." She hesitated as she handed them to him. "My mother saw this moment. She was a Seer, later in life. She did not believe she would live long enough, so she passed a message to me. For you."

His fingers grew cold under the weight of the texts.

"The Prophecy of the End of Days deceives you, for it has not yet fully come to pass. Valor will turn to wrath. Hope will despair. And Fate will be shattered, forever."

"Only one of those has not occurred."

"Prophecy sometimes echoes, and symbolism is not always truth. Do not disregard this warning." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "My mother also told me of another vision."

He bowed his head, listening.

"A twisted figure clad in armor will walk the land. It wields a spear within clawed hands, and with it sunders Sanctuary forever. The world burns to ash."

"Did she see anything else?"

"No. But it was all she spoke of in her last days." She opened her eyes again, and Malthael saw in them incredible depth and a lingering sadness. "My Lord, promise me you will not let this future come to pass."

* * *

Tyrael folded his arms and tapped at his elbows, gauntleted fingers echoing off the plate armor. The sun had set a half hour earlier, and they had all returned to the front of the tavern except Malthael. He wasn't entirely surprised his brother was late. They had taken a risk sending him into the bazaar without supervision; he was easily distracted by interesting things. The longer he was mortal, the more and less he became like his old self. More talkative, certainly, than he had ever been. But also increasingly consumed by learning.

"Should we look for him?" Aya asked.

Lyndon snorted. "Where? There are dozens of bazaars. He could be anywhere." He paused to glance over her shoulder. "Never mind. Our vagrant has returned."

"You are late," Tyrael said, unable to keep a rumble from his voice. "We were about to look for you."

"Did you find what I need?" Aya gestured at his bags.

Malthael nodded, rummaging through his pack and withdrawing several items, which he passed to Aya and Lyndon.

"Awfully long time to be gone for only a few things," the rogue said, raising an eyebrow. "What else did you bring us?" When Malthael did not reply, the scondrel reached into the pack and withdrew a large burlap wrap that smelled suspiciously of pork and spices.

"Brother," Tyrael said. "Truly."

"For the group." Malthael's tone was evasive, as if he we were pleased Tyrael had only asked about the food.

"He is forgiven," Lyndon said, unwrapping the kabobs and passing them around. "Zaira and her pet rock did not wait for you to eat. At least the rest of us will not starve."

While the other two dined, Tyrael pulled Malthael aside, ignoring the man's grumbling protests at being dragged by his cloak. "I appreciate the meal." He meant it; Caldeum's street food was always richly flavoured and went down easy. "However."

Malthael bit into a skewer and refused to meet his gaze.

"Will you not tell me what happened?"

He shook his head.

"At a later time?"

He shrugged.

"By the Hells, I thought we were beyond this sort of elusiveness."

"Did you know that some mortals preserved the records of their heritage?"

Tyrael was unsure how the sudden statement linked to his question. "I did not know that, but it does not surprise me. There are many beings in Sanctuary. I would think at least a few may have."

"You would do well to remember." The scholar ripped the rest of the meat from his skewer with his teeth and turned away. "We are more identifiable than we believe."

That was as much an answer as Tyrael expected to receive. He followed him back to Lyndon and Aya, who had made quick work of their food and were glancing at the former-angels inquisitively.

"Are we having a spat?" Lyndon asked. "Do we need to separate you two?"

"We are having a minor disagreement that we can resolve later. First, we need to fill him in on what we have learned."

Malthael raised an eyebrow. "Did you confirm the Baalstone's location?"

"Oh, I did one better, friend." The rogue's grin widened. "I know how we can steal it."

* * *

Aya was not pleased to be in the cellar of Zaira's make-shift lair again; however, they needed a quiet area to discuss their plans without attracting suspicions. And given what they were intending to do, even the noisy tavern had too many listening ears. Which was how Lyndon had made his critical discovery in the first place.

"I had given up learning anything." He leaned forward against a broken chair back. "The Wolves are difficult to trail, and to say their compound is secure is an understatement. When my resolve shattered, I returned to the tavern and partook in some relaxation. Wherein I realized I was surrounded by several additional Wolves who happened to be off duty."

"In a disreputable establishment," Aya said, not entirely believing him.

"Have you ever known a force to be completely without corruption?"

"Ah. Point taken."

"Thank you. There I was, stein in hand, listening in on their conversations. And lo, they began to discuss their most recent find, and how they would be presenting it to Emperor Hakkan the Third tomorrow morning as the sun rises, as a token of their commitment to the war effort."

"War effort?" Tyrael asked, suddenly attentive.

"It bears further investigation," Lyndon agreed. "I suspect they are making a public announcement alongside tomorrow's presentation."

"We cannot steal the gem from the Emperor in such a situation," Aya said. "We would be forced to engage the Iron Wolves in public."

"We won't have to. I know where the gem is stored. We must replace it in transit and deliver a fake to Hakkan."

From the corner where he had taken a seat on the floor, Malthael lowered his head and gave a muffled grunt.

"I agree, my still-unintroduced-acquaintance." Zaira glanced at her pointed ebony-black nails, which she was casually sharpening with a dagger. "That is a terrible idea."

"He is right, however," Tyrael said. "If they are moving it tomorrow, then the best chance we have of acquiring it is while it is being transferred."

"Could we not simply let them have it?" Chith asked. "And avoid this entire conflict? What is one more demonic artefact in the world if it means avoiding Hakkan's wrath? Maybe he will not use it at all when he discovers what it is!"

They all turned to stare at him. Aya felt a headache coming on, in part from hearing such words from someone who had lived in the city. The political machinations of the Jewel were everyday gossip, and only an idiot or an idealist could overlook them. He seemed genuinely transfixed with peacekeeping, however, and she pledged to be patient long enough to explain.

"Caldeum has always been its own friend in the world," she said. "If the Wolves are planning on war, wherever or whenever, they will use the gem regardless of its history. The city has grown particularly secular since Hakkan the Third wrestled power from his young nephew. He likely sees the stone as a mortal creation anyway and has no idea of the danger it poses."

"Or he is fully aware of its true nature and does not care," Malthael said, speaking for the first time since they had returned to the burned-out hovel. His eyes lingered briefly on Chith, as if he were intently considering his constitution. "Not all in power show compassion for their subjects."

"Then," Tyrael said, "What is our plan, brother?"

"Steal it. Precisely as we decided earlier."

"Brilliant," Lyndon said. "That is your best yet. Ever so fresh."

Ignoring him, Malthael continued: "Do you know when they move, and how many?"

The scoundrel frowned and folded his arms. "They assume all others who know about the gem are dead, so security will be clustered at the event itself. From what I could ascertain, the group moving it will be small."

"Then surprise will be our advantage."

"I enjoy overconfidence," Zaira said, snapping her dagger back into its sheath. "We take them out quickly and silently. Don their armor, deliver a fake, and hope it distracts them long enough we can slip out of the city. One of us will take the real gem elsewhere immediately." She pointed at Malthael. "You. The scrawny one. No one would believe you were an Iron Wolf anyway."

"There are likely arcanists in their ranks."

"Mistress, you are right," Chith added, most unhelpfully. "He is their lore-seeker. We should keep him out of combat for his safety."

"We can determine who stays and who runs once we see their composition." Tyrael raised his hands before his brother could reply. "And I would not underestimate Mal's prowess, Zaira."

"Ah, he finally has a name. How…ordinary."

Malthael stared at her silently.

Stifling a laugh, Aya hoped she continued to try and annoy him with personal insults. His non-reaction would infuriate her.

"Fine," the necromancer eventually said, more than a tinge of acidity dripping from her voice. "I will finish preparing my materials this eve. As should you all. The Wolves are no fools and could take any one of you by surprise."

"Do not worry," Aya said, fingering the tuning stone she now carried in a pouch. "We have acquired some additional help."

"Before dawn, then," Tyrael said. "We will return here at three hours past midnight. And then Lyndon will lead us to the gem."

* * *

 **A/N:** The plot thickens, and we finally meet Zaira. To celebrate, have some fun story facts! (Also, check out my Tumblr for artwork of Zaira to see what she looks like in all her creepy glory.)

When Malthael claims that only one of the Prophecy elements has not occurred, he is referring to Valor becoming Wrath; Auriel was captured by the Lord of Despair in _Diablo 3_ , and the Library of Fate also becomes completely entangled in the same game (thus implying Fate has been shattered by the presence of mortals).

In the twenty years since _Diablo 3_ took place, Caldeum has become rather interesting. Hakkan the 2nd, the young child we see in the game, has been supplanted by his uncle "for his protection" due to Belial's BS. Caldeum has accordingly become less receptive to outsiders as well as magic not utilized by the government.

Malthael's Archangel of Wisdom shotels are adorned with runes, per the Book of Cain, though what is actually written on them is not specified. The wording is my own creation.


	3. The Emperor's Decree

**Chapter Three: The Emperor's Decree**

They slept in shifts to ensure they were on time to the rendezvous, each staying awake two hours before waking the next. Zaira and Chith declared they would stay in the cellar to allow them a better opportunity to prepare, leaving four of them to split the watch. Malthael had offered to take the final shift, which allowed him time to himself before waking the others. After the previous day, he was fine being left alone to think.

He glanced out the window from his perch on his bed; on the other bed, Lyndon snored softly, having fallen asleep immediately after being relieved. Though the sky was dark, the stars were obscured by the ever-burning streetlamps of the city. Only the brightest glimmers broke through the haze. Malthael navigated by the constellations, and it was off-putting to see them hidden. It would be all too easy to become lost in Caldeum, unsure which direction was north. Not all the city's mazes were physical, however.

His mind returned repeatedly to the old woman and her words. He would have to tell Tyrael, eventually. But what? That the Prophecy had been misconstrued? That a monstrous deformity would lay waste to the earth? There were scant details to determine the creature's identity. And, prophecy _was_ unreliable. Though much of the End of Days had already taken place, and he hesitated to believe they had interpreted it wrong. Perhaps he could speak to Farah when he returned. She'd had no additional visions since they had met, but her brief experience with them might help shed light on the situation.

He wondered if she was awake as well, staring out the window of the library, reading an obscure text or simply thinking about things. She facetiously derided him for being awake at night, but he had caught her doing the same many times. Many of those times, they had ended up sitting together silently, reading or enveloped in their own internal monologues.

And he realized, abruptly, that he missed her. The thought startled but did not disturb him. He could have assumed as much, had he considered his feelings more closely. But the emotions she cultivated in him had always been tied to actions or events they experienced together. He had never felt them from being away from her on the road.

Now, in the deepest hours of the night, he simply wanted her to be there. Not for conversation or assistance. But for pure companionship. The thought of her at his side lit within him the spark of anticipation he usually only felt when he was at the cusp of a great discovery. It enthralled and terrified him that his emotional control had been so thoroughly breeched by someone else. For millennia he had been alone, and never once had he felt the need to rely on another.

He frowned. Rely was not the correct word. His survival was not dependent on her. Nor was his sanity. Instead, something about her _refined_ him. She carved a better version of himself out of the rough wood from which he had been hewn. The parts of her that he considered exceptional literally drove him to become the same.

Lyndon's words from the previous night returned to him: _"You care about her. Don't you. More than as an acquaintance?"_ The scoundrel was shrewder than he sometimes let on. He was also correct.

Malthael closed his eyes and allowed unfamiliar, yet comforting, sensations of warmth wash through him. He felt vulnerably, nakedly mortal, mired as he was within the new and breathtaking realm of affection. Nor did he wish to escape it, in the few minutes of privacy he had when he could safely experience such things.

Eventually, downstairs, in the heart of the tavern, an old grandfather clock chimed loudly three times. He took a long breath, regained the impenetrable walls he kept about his thoughts, and went to wake the others.

* * *

Early as it was, none of their group showed overt signs of fatigue. Lyndon assumed they had each managed a bit of sleep, and adrenaline was a wonderful thing. Internally, he felt his age creeping on him, though he would never admit it. But he knew he would feel it in his knees once they were back in Tristram.

He leaned over the rooftop of a shop near the Wolves' compound, distantly identifying action at the gates. Soundlessly, he scrambled down the siding, maneuvering over ladders and balconies until he landed softly in front of his companions.

Gesturing for them to move, he flipped up his hood and stalked down the alleyway; the others followed, mostly silently, though he heard occasional pings from Tyrael's armor. Thankfully, Caldeum was not a quiet city even at night, and the noises were disguised by distant shouting or the occasional calls of pigeons and wild dogs.

Positioning them at a crossroads, he tipped a mirror around the corner, confirming a group was walking their direction. He nodded at Zaira; he thought her idea was terrible, but she seemed confident in carrying it out.

She grinned and waited until the group was almost at the corner, then purposely stumbled in front of them, her knees buckling.

The Iron Wolves stopped, snapping up their weapons.

She wailed. "Oh, my lovelies. Menfolk. Help me."

One of the Wolves lowered his staff, slightly, and looked to the others. "Captain?"

"I hate this city," another said. "Move, woman! Take your vapours elsewhere."

Flexing her fingers, Zaira spontaneously regained her balance, turned to face them directly, and growled.

"Vapours?" She hissed as a cloud rose from the ground, concealing them and giving the rest of the group their chance to move. "This is necromancy, dears."

The Wolves began coughing and choking as the death-shroud overtook them.

Lyndon fired his crossbow, the bolt thwacking into a guard's chest. Then he swept with Malthael through the group, drawing his dagger and cutting the hamstrings from one of them in a swift motion. The soldier tried to scream, but the shroud had filled his lungs; he gurgled, attempted to run, and collapsed. To his side, Malthael's lithe form slid between two Wolves and slashed at their legs. They also fell.

His vision wavering, Lyndon dove out from the cloud and gasped for breath. He did not entirely trust Zaira to only go after the Wolves. Other necromancers considered her use of the shroud distasteful in part because it was Reaper domain, and in part because she did not always discriminate between friend and foe. Regardless of his personal feelings about it, it _was_ an effective way to quell resistance.

Eventually, the sounds stopped, and the mist dropped to the ground. Malthael walked out of the remaining wafts and knocked lingering frost tendrils away with a blade, his expression one of blatant distaste. In his left hand he carried a small box, inlaid with gold and silver. Zaira eyed him carefully, as if suddenly curious about the man she had disrespected the day prior. He returned the look, obviously displeased with the display.

At the same moment, Tyrael, Chith, and Aya came around the corner, the latter checking and confirming the Wolves were unconscious.

"Problem," the scholar said.

"Is it missing?" Tyrael asked.

In reply, Malthael cracked open the box to reveal, as Zaira had described, a palm-sized crimson gem, glittering with internal fire. He gestured to Aya, who sighed, opened her pouch, and tossed him her tuning stone, which was close in colour and shape. He switched them out, snapping the box closed and closing his fist around the Baalstone. It thrummed angrily, and he frowned at it.

"I suppose I do not need the firepower if we are not breaking into the compound," Aya said, forlornly.

Zaira's gaze had not left Malthael; it lingered on his fist and the stone. "What is the issue, then, if we have the gem?"

He nodded back at the bodies.

Lyndon glanced over. There were four corpses, all men, none with a build or height that suggested martial prowess. "Oh."

The necromancer hissed and dragged a fingernail down her cheek, leaving a long red scratch. "I suppose they have arcanists after all."

Tyrael sighed. "None of those will fit me. Zaira and I will take the stone."

"Must we deliver the fake at all?" Chith asked, as the rest began to take stock of the armor and clothing available. "Could we not escape with the real-"

Lyndon raised a hand to stop him. "As soon as the Wolves do not appear at the Imperial Palace, they will know the gem has been stolen. How far do you think we would get in that time?"

"Not far?"

"No, not far at all. The gem is the priority. We need to get it out of the city." Noticing the others had removed any applicable armor, he considered his options. "Aya, Chith, Malthael, and I will escort the fake to the Palace. Tyrael, do not wait for us. We will meet you on the road to Tristram, and if not, back in Tristram itself."

Eyes narrowing, Zaira bemoaned, "I should be part of the escort! I have committed too much blood to have this ruse discovered." She glared at Chith, implying she thought he would ruin the plan.

"My lady," Lyndon said, thinking she was not so much a lady mortal, but some malevolent spirit thrust unwarrantedly upon Sanctuary, "unless you can suddenly lose a good six inches in height, I think you will be guarding our prize."

She spat on the ground.

"I thought not." He began to unclasp his gear. "Leave everything non-essential here. The rest, Tyrael and Zaira can take. Keep your weapons if you can hide them. May the Light protect us."

* * *

Chith did not much like the Iron Wolves' armor. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, and the robes underneath were made from a hot, itchy material. He preferred the silk robes that had been a gift from Osseus. Even if they had several holes after years of use.

"Stop slouching," Aya whispered to him. He straightened his back, not realizing he had been. "The Palace gates are ahead."

Forcing himself to breathe, Chith tried to subdue the dread that was rising in his gut. It always happened whenever he and Zaira undertook anything dire. She said that him feeling death more and more was a sign of his blossoming abilities. He was never entirely sure if it was a good thing. Unlike Zaira, who reveled in it, he loathed death, or the undead, or the dying. They seemed _wrong_.

He had told Osseus similar, once, only to be told that yes, of course they were wrong. And it was a necromancer's duty to uphold the Balance with their command of the wrong. Chith had nodded, accepted the advice, and continued to struggle with anything beyond a simple summoning. He had power, they said. They could feel it in his Nephalem blood. And since he felt the dead, that power could be harnessed through the Church of Rathma.

But it always seemed like a terrible idea.

"Breathe," Aya added.

Chith sucked in a breath, berating himself for having forgotten to do so, even after he had made note of it. He tightened his grip on the Wolves' staff they had insisted he carry; his necromantic materials and dagger were safely stowed under the armor.

"How are you holding up, Mal?" Lyndon muttered.

"Tolerably."

After brief consideration, the lore-seeker had conceded his weapons to Tyrael, noting they were similar to Rathman swords and would attract unwanted attention. Instead, he carried the box with the fake gem, his knuckles white from gripping the edges. Chith was curious why the man carried curved blades at all, especially since he had denied having any kind of necromantic knowledge.

Granted, Mal had also walked from Zaira's shroud untouched, and that was not lost on Chith. There seemed to be more to him than he wished to reveal. And the palpable discomfort radiating from the man lessened Chith's wariness of him. Somewhat. After seeing the depths of his irritation, he had no desire to uncover the characteristics of his rage. He preferred to nurture the opposite in others, even in the direst moments.

 _Stay calm. You have been in worse predicaments. Encourage. Be optimistic. This will work._

"Do not worry, friend," Chith whispered, forcing the smile back onto his face. "We will watch your back. You needn't fear being unarmed."

Mal turned to stare at him quizzically from under his helmet.

Worried he had misspoke after all, Chith laughed nervously, the staff wavering in his grasp. "I am sure Tyrael and Zaira will take good care of your weapons."

The lore-seeker perceptibly tipped his head, looking even more confused. "Yes. I am sure they will."

"And if things become complicated, the three of us can take care of it."

Mal raised an eyebrow.

Stop talking, Chith thought to himself, as the jitters returned. _You're only making it worse._ "Though, I am sure you can help. In some way." _Stop. Talking. Chith!_

Aya waved a hand to thankfully cut off their conversation as the gate guards approach. She began whistling softly under her breath, and he wondered if she was working some sort of arcane mentalism on the men.

"Took you long enough," one of the guards said, glancing them over and noting the box before waving for the gate to open. "Best hope you didn't delay this whole venture with your tardy walking." His eyes glimmered strangely, confirming Chith's suspicions.

They passed through the archway and into the Imperial Palace grounds. The Palace towered over them, its curved sides glowing with the increasing light of the impending sunrise. A sergeant from inside led them onward, and they followed, attempting to mimic the military precision of his walking. All the while, Aya continued her whistling; it went unnoticed by the other Wolves.

The solider brought them through a tall archway into a flowering garden overlooking the Palace's lowest balcony. Hundreds of soldiers, merchants, and courtesans were already gathered; their eyes were on a tall man who stood with his arms braced against the railing. The Emperor was clothed in layers of the finest silk, embroidered with gold and inlaid with diamonds and other precious gems. He wore a silver rapier on his hip, its hilt as decorated as his robes.

"My Emperor!" The soldier directing them shouted, drawing the eyes of the crowd and the nobles in the Palace itself. "Your Iron Wolves present to you a gift."

Chith was unsure how they were going to reach him, until the Emperor began glowing. There was a flash, and the man disappeared; he reappeared a moment later in the courtyard at the top of a long marble staircase.

"Come," Hakkan said, his voice echoing dramatically throughout the courtyard.

The sergeant stepped to the side, taking his place in a row of other soldiers. Chith, Lyndon, and Aya quickly followed, leaving Mal standing alone on the stairs. There was no hesitation in the man's steps as he made his way up to the Emperor. When he reached the top, he knelt, bowed his head, and lifted the box.

"A gem of the earth for the ruler of the Jewel of the East," Mal said, loudly enough the words also carried to the crowd. Chith was entranced by his voice, which was suddenly more melodic and commanding than it had been before. He also spoke the local tongue perfectly, unaccented.

The Emperor considered him for a moment, then took the box, expression remaining impassive. Mal withdrew down the stairs, sliding into place next to Chith.

"Citizens," Hakkan said, pulling the box to his chest. "We stand here on the precipice of a movement. Today, as the sun rises, a new age dawns. In our land, perhaps even here in our midst, are individuals with astounding power. Our ancestors thought them the spawn of angels and demons, but we deny that myth for what it is. They are irresponsible and powerful wielders of the arcane, untrained practitioners who threaten our lives and our stability."

Chith glanced at the others; save Mal, who remained stoic as always, the other two looked notably uncomfortable.

"These usurpers, who call themselves Nephalem, deem to intervene in the affairs of nations. We saw this when their efforts led to the kidnapping and near death of my dear nephew, the former Emperor Hakkan the Second, twenty-seven years ago!"

"Hellspawn," Aya hissed softly. "That was Belial."

"We saw them when their necromancer ranks tried to sunder our city the same year. They would have succeeded, save for the efforts of your Wolves!"

But weren't those the Reapers? Chith wondered.

"Today is the last day we hand our security to those unknown to us. Today, the soldiers of Caldeum raise their banners in defense of our city and our sovereignty!" He raised the box over his head, opening it to reveal the gem; at the same moment, the morning sun crept over the rooftops, its gleam catching the stone and reflecting its facets across the crowd.

"Today, we claim their power for our own. In our _responsible_ hands, we will use it to strike down evil!"

Mal muttered something, his stony expression cracking momentarily.

"Pardon?" Chith asked, louder than he intended, drawing irritated glances from some of the other soldiers.

Hakkan began chanting; a crimson glow spread from his hands to the stone like a wall of fire. It rose upward, spreading—

And fizzled out as the gem shattered. Leftover arcane energy spilled into the crowd, shattering ceramic vases and ripping leaves from trees. Soldiers broke ranks to rush forward to the Emperor, who was stumbling on the terrace, alive and very much enraged. Others split into the crowd, searching for the perceived attackers.

"Run," Lyndon gasped, grabbing Aya by the shoulder and pulling her forward.

Chith made to follow, then turned to see Mal unmoving from his post. The older man watched, entranced, as a group of Wolves helped the Emperor regain his balance. Hakkan's gaze darted about the crowd, until his eyes abruptly met Mal's. They stared at each other from a distance, incredulity spreading across Hakkan's face, while an unreadable fury of emotions crossed their friend's.

"Malthael!" Lyndon screamed. "Regrets later, running now!"

The lore-seeker blinked, turned from the Emperor, and sprinted after them.

* * *

The Palace grounds were in complete disarray; guards rushed about, shouting orders, attempting to identify where the attack had come from. There was no discussion of it being internal—yet. But Malthael knew the Wolves were no idiots, and they would quickly realize the gem had been switched. There was no proof his group was responsible. But if he were interrogating someone, the first people he would seek were the ones who had delivered it. He had seen as much on the Emperor's face.

"Tyrael will murder us if they do not," Aya snarled, as they pushed through huddled merchants that had taken shelter near a guard station. "Hakkan announces war on the Nephalem, and we promptly steal his crown jewel."

"Our timing could have been better," Lyndon agreed, glancing behind them. "Damnation, we're being followed. I don't suppose you've worked out that teleportation incantation, have you?"

"Yes, but it takes time for a group this large. It would be easier to split up once we're through the gate and try and draw them into smaller groups."

Time. They needed time more than anything else. Time to run, time to escape.

Malthael cursed that he had given up his blades to Tyrael. But the greater part of his mind knew the weapons were not enough to hold off the Wolves. They needed a distraction, or better, something to incapacitate the group, until they could blend into the rapidly vanishing pre-dawn shadows.

He grabbed Chith's arm. The younger man's face had grown pale; he was clearly terrified of the entire situation. "Distract them." Malthael gestured imperatively at the crowd. "Summons. Corpses. Anything."

"We really need it, now," Aya added, her tone becoming desperate. "The gate we came in is closed."

Lyndon swore. "Then cast away. We will try and hold them off."

There was no way out, except through the fabric of reality. The group skidded to a halt. The scoundrel drew his crossbow and covered them in the gate direction, leaving Malthael and Chith to guard the rear.

Malthael glanced in the direction of the intensifying shouting. Their window of escape was dwindling. Amidst the din, a ghostly voice whispered to him: _**"You are hardly helpless, Reaper. Physical weapons are not the only power you possess."**_

He flinched and pushed the idea away; it persisted as a loud buzz in his mind. He had never done _that_ without blades to use as a focus, and he had no intention of trying to do so when the Wolves were intermixed with bystanders. Their souls were identical at a distance. There had to be another way.

" _ **There is no other way."**_

He bit back profanity and tried to halt the feelings assaulting him, but the flow of memory grew, stealing his breath and turning his vision grainy. Death had not helped him, then. It had taken him. Completely.

" _ **Death consumes all, fool. Do you think yourself an exception?"**_

He unconsciously tightened his grip on Chith's arm, shaking his head violently to try and clear his thoughts. "Do something," he growled.

"I cannot," Chith whispered. He had gone very still, his eyes wide and white.

" _Stop them_."

" _I cannot_. The most I ever summoned was a single ghoul, and you know what it did? It laughed happily and then died. Again." He pulled his arm away from Malthael, his shoulders shaking.

The break in physical contact was enough to temporarily wrench him back to reality. Panicked shouts from the crowd returned, along with the voices of the Wolves, who were now very close indeed. Ashamed and frustrated at his actions, Malthael tried to reassess the situation, but found his mind locked in place.

"I always thought I could do it if I needed to," Chith continued, rambling. "At a moment like this. But the more I think about it, the worse it feels. I don't want to call the dead. I don't want anyone to die in the first place! The whole world is full of darkness, and I wish I could bring it light."

The words cracked through Malthael's panic and hit him with startling clarity. He immediately understood where his suspicions about the young man had gone awry. He had been foolish to assume Chith's incompetency meant he was powerless. Of _course_ he could not summon the dead. Though he was indeed capable of feeling death or those approaching it, he was no necromancer. He was something very different. And if Malthael was correct, he finally knew _what_ he was.

Before Chith could react, he grasped his shoulder and turned him to again meet his gaze. In the calmest tone he could muster, he said, "Have hope, child."

* * *

Chith looked into Mal's eyes, expecting to see something like he felt. Panic, or desperation. Instead, he found endless pools that drew him in.

"Have hope, child."

He blinked, and he was no longer in the Imperial Palace, but in a different garden. Marble arches and fountains surrounded him; a gentle light pervaded the space, and no matter how hard Chith looked, he could not see an end to the greenery. Voices whispered, distantly, along with the quiet, persistent echo of singing.

He turned, unbidden; he was in someone else's body. Mal's, perhaps? Then he saw a figure, shaped as woman but not human in the slightest. She wore long robes of white, green, and gold, and carried about her arms and shoulders a long, corded sash. A hood was draped across her face, hiding her features.

From her back sprouted glorious, shifting wings of aquamarine light. They drifted about in time to the singing, occasionally shifting hues to a delicate, pale rose.

"What ails you, my Brother?" the angel asked, in a melodious tone that ripped away Chith's fear with every word. "Ah, as always. I see. Then, speak your ills to me. Let Al'maiesh sooth your soul of such concerns." She took the cord and wrapped it about him, and with each loop, he felt warmth, and light—

And hope.

The world and Caldeum returned with the exploding sounds of screaming and anger. Chith stumbled from Mal's grip and stared up at him with an uncontrollable mix of wonder and awe.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"Later. You saw it? The Light?"

Chith looked to his hands and felt flowing in them something new. Not the power of death that Zaira and Osseus had tried to teach him to draw. But the opposite. A mighty force that would stop death before it arrived.

"Any time now," Aya yelled. A complex circle of arcane runes swirled around her, though there were still spots where the spell was missing or incomplete. "Or are you two going to keep standing there doing nothing?"

"Have hope," Chith repeated, and the words felt _right_. As if he had stumbled upon something integral to his being that had been hidden in plain sight. He knelt and threw his hands to the ground, letting the Light flow through him towards the spots of darkness and death he felt.

The air shimmered, then bisected into spaces inside and outside a transparent, golden crystal. Mighty walls condensed and flowed outward, eventually encasing the entire group. He stood, breathless, and stared at the protective glyph he had summoned.

Outside the Light walls, the Wolves stumbled and screamed, grabbing at their eyes.

Chith looked to Mal and found him smiling slightly. "Did I do it right?"

The man shrugged. "Hardly my Aspect to assess."

Whatever that meant. But before he could question him further, the air flickered, bent, and Caldeum disappeared.

* * *

 **A/N:** Looks like Malthael isn't always right, and Chith isn't quite an idiot. This is a good thing. Next week will be the final chapter, where we'll get to see how everything pans out. Thanks to all my readers who have followed along this far. As always, it's great to hear from you, either here on via my Tumblr account!

 **THIS CHAPTER HAS ART. Be sure to check out my Tumblr blog for a pic of Chith doing his thing, painted by the awesome Zaera-D.**

 **Fun story facts!** Emperor Hakkan II is the boy Emperor you meet in Diablo 3. His uncle eventually pushes him out of power for "his safety". Good guy, that Hakkan III. Chith's protective glyph is based on Auriel's ult ability from Heroes of the Storm. Ethnicity-wise, he looks similar to Li-Ming. Malthael really did subdue a Baal relic by glaring at it (at least in part). This chapter (and story) has a lot of gems in it because the Diablo games are obsessed with them, and they were going to pop up sometime in my writing.


	4. The Price of Hindsight

**Chapter Four: The Price of Hindsight**

Aya had been true to her word. Though the incantation had taken time, it had whisked them away to a small oasis a fair distance outside of Caldeum, where, conveniently, they had found Tyrael and Zaira breaking for water, four horses in tow, and the Baalstone stashed away safely on Tyrael's belt. The pair had already buried the Iron Wolves' uniforms and changed into their previous clothing.

Aya insisted the portal exit was coincidence, but for Malthael, it was a stark reminder to never assume anything when it came to Nephalem. An unconscious part of her had likely felt out the road, identified his brother and Zaira, and brought them to the correct spot. Not that he could ask her more for confirmation. They had spent the rest of the day travelling, and the sun was now quickly dipping into the west. Aya was snoring while riding behind Lyndon, her arms wrapped around his waist. They would have to break for sleep, soon, or risk her tumbling from the mount.

"Your story is grave," Tyrael said, as he and Malthael rode abreast. "I did not expect the situation to escalate so fast." Chith rode drowsily awake behind the larger man, his efforts having exhausted him almost as much as Aya. His eyelids flickered open and closed with the rhythmic trotting of the horse; he was clearly not listening, granting the two men some much needed privacy to compare notes.

"We acted too quickly." Malthael shook his head. "Not enough information. Had I known…"

"But we did not. All we knew was that it was powerful. The Baalstone was far too strong for Hakkan to have. I saw your face when you held it. No, do not try and argue with me, Malthael. We made the right choice."

"Regardless, they will blame the Nephalem."

"Yes, they will. But if not this time, then another." Tyrael frowned. "Between this and the incursions into the lands outside Tristram, I believe the threat against them is quite real."

"They can defend themselves."

"Certainly. But they do not want a war. Do you?"

He shook his head. He cared about too many individuals who would be impacted. And, truthfully, he was growing tired of fighting. He had never considered himself a warrior by profession. After the events in Caldeum, he wished he could shelve his blades for good. Too many fragments of his past returned when blood was shed. Dangerous pieces, that were unreliable and unstable. Though, if what they had seen in the Jewel was any indication, he doubted he would have that option.

"I would avoid conflict if I could," he replied. "Though it is persistent. The line between inaction and morality is narrow."

"Granted." Tyrael sighed. "There has been talk of sending a delegation to the High Heavens."

"Imperius is more interested in glory than he is in justice. He will not help them."

"I do not mean a meeting to request aid. I mean a formal delegation between equals, one that could ratify the Nephalem's place among powers greater than those in Caldeum."

Malthael raised both brows. "You mean an extension of the truce to _include_ the Nephalem?"

"We know their strength. They have defeated the Prime Evils countless times." He paused, then said, softly, "They defeated you, at what many would argue was the height of your power."

"My sickness was not strength."

"In form, no. In function, yes. And I fear it is not altogether gone from the Heavens." Tyrael hesitated again. "Imperius has been embarrassed by the Nephalem too many times. He is proud and not above fear. We have seen what his pride can do. We must ensure he sees the Nephalem as allies. It is in these moments of weakness that the forces of Hell always choose to strike. Their greatest move would be to pit our brethren against the mortals, without sacrificing a single demon."

" _My Lord, do not let this future come to pass."_

Malthael winced as the old woman's words arrested his mind.

" _Armor, terrible and clawed. A spear. The world, burning."_

"Brother?" Tyrael's eyes creased with concern.

"You would do well to speak to Imperius." He tried to contain the chill running through him. "The approaching war may not be the one we anticipate."

"The Eternal Conflict is just that. Eternal. Neither its form nor its combatants change."

"Incorrect. The Conflict was disrupted the moment Sanctuary was created. And now, two archangels walk as mortals, in more than just body. We still have much to learn about adaptability." He looked to Chith, who had finally fallen asleep with his face pressed against Tyrael's cape; he snored with each bounce of the horse. "He is a poor necromancer. He may also be a gifted healer, given the appropriate training."

"I recall you saying he was an imbecile."

Malthael honestly could not remember saying it aloud, but Tyrael was exasperatingly good at reading his face. "Perchance. If so, I was incorrect."

"And our sister would be upset to hear what you think of her optimism."

"Hope has its place," he conceded, reluctantly. "Outside of necromancy."

"Had you not recognized his ability for what it was, I might have been recovering your corpse as part of a diplomatic exchange."

"Then it is good I did. Possibly. He is inexperienced. It will serve him poorly. The world has a darker heart than he believes."

"Also, a lighter one. You would know, I think." Tyrael smiled, and before Malthael could respond, he bowed his head and lifted the reins. "I must check ahead. Try not to think too much."

Malthael scowled, though the urge passed as his brother disappeared into the twilight haze. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to centre himself as he had done so easily in the past. It was harder since he had lost his immortality. The thread that tied him to the universe, to continued existence, was gone. The Chalice had always been his anchor. Now, he had to search harder to find the same peace. He saw glimpses of it in the reflections in water, or in the shadows passing across glass. In the familiar scent of spiced teas and books. In quiet companionship.

"You make a fool of me, stranger."

Startled, Malthael opened his eyes to see Zaira now riding alongside him, her expression dark. "We were introduced," he said.

"Hardly. And how unfortunate that I missed Chith's imperfection. A dash of the angelic. It is a rare gift, to perceive death to _stop_ it. You were lucky to guess."

"Not luck. Experience."

Her eyes narrowed. "Your immunity to the shroud was not lost on me, nor your holding of the stone in your bare hands. Chith said you were a lore-keeper. I doubt that. No scholar subdues a demonic artefact with a mere glance."

"Lore- _seeker_."

"Half-truth, then." She pulled her horse in front of his, forcing him to stop so she could stare him down. "I have spent years refining these abilities to serve the Church and preserve the Balance. Still, I am mocked and spat at because I dare to tread too _far_ one direction. And then you appear, and no one questions _you_. No, you are free to do as you please." She sneered. "I heard what happened in the Palace. What fool are you to have such power over death and demons and not wield it to save yourself or your companions?"

He had heard similar words before, many years ago. Foolish. Proud. Delusions from someone who had thought himself the master of death and the righteous interpreter of the universe. Himself.

" _ **There is no other way."**_

He grimaced as the phrase echoed about his mind again. Though, removed from danger as they now were, it held little sway over him compared to in Caldeum. And there _had_ been another way. One not marred with dark arts or desperation.

"Were you afraid to dirty your hands, coward? Or whoever you are."

" _ **Murderer. Reaper. Angel of Death."**_

It was too much. Weary of her provocations, he directed his horse aside hers, so they faced opposite directions; confusion bloomed across her face as he drew closer. Then he tightened his fingers about her wrist.

"Malthael," he said, so quietly it was almost lost to the wind. "Archangel of Wisdom and the Reaper of Westmarch. I murdered thousands without pause or mercy. My hands are already dirty. They will never be clean. And you will not ask me such questions again."

Shuddering, he released her, though before he did, her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. He hoped she had seen even a fragment of the memories she had momentarily ripped from his mind, unwanted. Not caring if she responded, he prodded his horse into a gallop, and rode to find his brother.

* * *

They arrived back in Tristram without difficulty, though Tyrael suspected public word of the incident would reach their ears soon enough. They were met at the town gates by a small crowd of well-wishers; some friends, some family, some simply curious about their return and the two new members of their party. Not that Zaira or Chith remained at the gates for long. The former was oddly subdued and disappeared the moment she was greeted. Chith, meanwhile, asked for directions to Osseus' place, excited to see his former mentor and share with him what he had learned.

"Did you get into any trouble?" Eirena smirked at Lyndon, grabbing his shoulders and spinning. "All those pretty ladies. I am sure they were very tempting." Before he could reply, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him deeply.

"He was a gentleman," Aya said after they came up for air. "I promise."

"That surprises me," Kormac said, approaching them and raising a hand in greeting. "Do you mean to convince me you all went to Caldeum and caused no chaos?"

"Hardly." Tyrael sighed. "I am glad to see you. Can you take this to Li-Ming?" He held out the bundle with the Baalstone, which glowed faintly from within the cloth. "I am tired of carrying it. Tell her to handle it carefully. It is stronger than it appears."

The templar frowned at the bundle. "I can feel its malevolence from here. Was it difficult to locate?" When Tyrael sighed again, Kormac added, "We can talk more later. It sounds as though you had a long journey."

"You have no idea." He turned as his attention was drawn to a commotion back at the gate.

Farah had sidled through the crowd and finally reached her sister and Malthael. "Welcome back, _baina!_ " She threw her arms around Aya, embracing her for a long moment, before turning to the scholar. "Welcome back!" she repeated, her cheeks darkening. She ran a hand absently through her hair, as if contemplating saying more.

Malthael nodded in reply, then lowered his pack to the ground. Digging through it, he eventually withdrew two book-shaped objects enfolded in silk and held them out expectantly.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, Light. I doubted you would find any, let alone two. They were very obscure." She took them and ran her fingers along the wrappings. "Did they cost much?"

The fleeting distress that crossed Malthael's face was not lost on Tyrael; or, he suspected, on Farah. Her expression faltered, and she hesitantly reached a hand to brush his chest. A moment passed, then he very slowly clasped her hand in his.

"By the Light," Kormac whispered, to Tyrael alone. "What happened to all of you?"

"Truthfully, I am not sure."

"Come," Farah eventually said. "Both of you. The house has been too quiet. I am sure we can find something to eat and you can tell me about your adventures."

As she pulled Aya and Malthael away, Tyrael turned his thoughts to the days ahead. There were many things they had to discuss. He thought to Malthael's return from the bazaar and his odd warning, and to their discussion a few days prior. The Nephalem delegation and visit to the Heavens was long overdue, and now timelier than ever.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "we will gather to discuss our plans. All of us. Much has occurred that you are not aware of, and things are falling out of our hands."

"Into whose?"

"Those who may not see eye to eye with our cause." He looked upward to the blue sky where the Heavens hid, and wondered how many in its halls felt the same. "The Eternal Conflict approaches, again. We must prepare for war."

* * *

Twilight eventually turned to night, and Farrah grew tired of waiting for Malthael to return. He had excused himself after the meal, during which he had spoken very little. Aya had filled her in on what had occurred in Caldeum, uncharacteristically seriously. It was understandable, given the immense gravity of the situation. Also understandable was Malthael's desire to be alone and think.

But he'd had enough time to work through matters on his own. He could lose himself in his thoughts for hours, often productively. She had witnessed brilliant conclusions be created in such moments, as was expected from the man who had once been the Archangel of Wisdom. She had also seen his mortal soul eat away at itself from the desire to solve too many things simultaneously. Or to fix things that could not be fixed.

More had occurred in Caldeum than Aya had described. Likely, something Malthael had not told anyone and was keeping to himself.

She found him in a meadow a short distance from town. The grove, ringed by towering poplars, overlooked a small pond that was fed from the nearby river. He sat at the edge of the water, his knees pulled to his chest, looking out across the expanse. Leaves rustled as an evening breeze swept through the grass and wildflowers, spreading long ripples across the pond.

"Join me," he said, unexpectedly, his voice raw. Not the calm, neutral tones she was used to.

"I am sorry." She stepped out. "I was not sure if I should interrupt."

He gestured to the grass beside him. Farah settled in to the spot, close enough his cloak brushed her as it rustled in the wind. The air had chilled after the sun had set, and she understood why he was sitting as he was. She mimicked his posture and pulled her knees to her chest to preserve her body heat.

"It was not your fault," she said softly. "What happened with the Baalstone."

He shrugged.

"You couldn't have known."

"It is my duty to know. I should have done better."

"You are mortal. We all make mistakes."

He pressed his palms to his forehead, his fingers splaying across his face.

"Something else happened. Yes?"

"You are too perceptive."

"I am your friend. You are not foolish enough to believe you are perfect, though you strive to be. What happened to cause your distress?"

He lowered his hands and rested his chin on his knees. The wind had tangled his hair, and several long strands were draped across his face. He ignored them and continued to gaze across the water, unblinking. "The bookseller I visited was the descendant of my kin. She knew me."

Goosebumps unrelated to the cold rose on her arms.

"Her mother had the Sight. She claimed we misread the prophecy of the End of Days."

"Prophecy can change. We know this."

"She saw a terrible being raze Sanctuary to ashes and begged me to stop it from occurring."

"I saw the fall of the Heavens. Yet we do not know when or even if it will occur."

"Her mother saw _me_ , Farah. She saw me speak to a woman at a stall at a bazaar. A mortal man with angelic blades. She knew what was written on them, in a language no mortal can read. She saw this woman ask for _my_ help. No one else." He turned to her, and in his eyes she saw uncharacteristic uncertainty. And thinly veiled dread. "I once had the wisdom of all things to draw from. Now I am left with what I can scrounge from Sanctuary. Decisions born of ignorance, no matter good their intentions, are still ill-informed and consequential."

She remembered, then, the feeling that had struck her when she had awoken from her prophetic dream. The tugging sensation that she must act on it, and that Malthael, specifically, was immensely important to the future. She pushed the memory away, knowing it was not what he needed to hear. He already knew the truth, intrinsically, or he would not be displaying such overt distress.

The wind howled again, and she shivered. Silently, Malthael shifted closer to her and drew his cloak across her back. Startled by the gesture, she leaned against his shoulder so he could pull the garment tight and block the breeze. He flinched at the contact but did not withdraw. They had not shared such a physical connection since the night they had ridden back to Tristram. Then, it had been out of necessity. Now, he offered it willingly. More had changed while he had been away than she realized. Though this difference, if surprising, was not unwelcome.

Malthael always kept his feelings guarded. She was used to his behaviour and had even grown proficient at reading his face when he thought it neutral. But such an overt gesture of care from him was new. She scarcely knew how to react, except to embrace the pleasant feelings it brought her and assume he did so without any hidden meaning whatsoever.

Which meant, perhaps, that he felt as she did. That he had missed her, as much as she had missed him. And he was driven to show that however he could.

"There is no prophecy here," she whispered, very gently drawing her arm around the small of his back, until her fingers rested on his hip. "There are trees and a lake. Waving grasses and birdsong. Clouds and stars. And you and I."

He closed his eyes, and slowly, she felt his breathing steady. Then, surprising her once again, he mimicked her gesture, hesitantly at first, before more assuredly wrapping his arm about her.

"Tomorrow," she continued, "there will be warm tea and old parchment. The smell of dust and ink. And you and I."

"And the day after?"

"The future, whatever it holds. Perhaps laughter. Perhaps sorrow. And you and I."

"And the day after that?"

She chuckled. "You and I. What sort of Seer do you believe me to be?"

"A personal one."

"That is the most reliable kind."

Eventually, when the gale roared again, and her ears began to ache, she conceded the need for proper warmth. Shuddering, she unwrapped herself from him and pulled them both to standing.

"Come, only children freeze foolishly in the night. We can find some blankets and talk where it is warmer." She hesitated, having been far more forward than she intended, even with the night's revelations. "If you wish."

"You and I." He gave her a tiny, yet tremendously genuine smile. "I do wish."

* * *

 **A/N:** ... That's the end of Act III! Thanks everybody for reading along this far! Our characters have come a long way since the beginning of the series. Which means there's a lot more at stake now. Act IV will be the concluding act for the series, and it's a beast in length: it's longer than the other three acts put together.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting a few Tristram shorts, as well as working on editing Act IV. It's all written, it just needs some TLC before posting. I would expect to start posting it sometime early December. Until then, hopefully you enjoy the shorts; and as always, they will fill in between the stories, so they're just as important to read. As well, remember to check my tumblr blog, mal-likes-biscuits, for in-character /ask replies, RP threads, and lots of nerdy things. Drop me /asks or messages, I love hearing from readers!


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